Italian Fever

by Valerie Martin

  Lucy turned away, chuckling to herself as she wandered into the piazza. She looked up and saw, above the fake rushing waterfall, the tourists looking down from the Pincio. Ordinarily, she would have made the effort to join them, for she liked a view, and this, she knew, was a celebrated one. But the exertions of the day had left her weary; after her nap, she had been forced to wrap her ankle in an inelegant bandage and to ignore Massimo’s disapproval of the walking stick. She leaned gratefully upon it as she cast about for a way to pass the half hour until he was scheduled to arrive. At length, she had decided to pay whatever staggering price they were asking for the privilege of sitting with a cappuccino at one of the cafés on the perimeter of the piazza.

  She saw him long before he saw her, and she took the opportunity to watch him as if she had never seen him before. He stood at the edge of the busy street ringing the piazza, looking in the direction of the traffic. He waited, then darted out to the safety of the pavement. He did this without appearing at all rushed or awkward. He was wearing the usual casual but elegant dark jacket—he seemed to have a closet full of them—an even darker shirt, and black jeans. He had on sunglasses, so Lucy could not be sure he saw her, and he raised a cigarette to his lips as he moved gracefully toward her through the crowd. She swallowed a little throb of self-pity; she was going to find it painful, their inevitable parting. A skeptical inner voice inquired, Would you really want such a man? but she ignored it. The question was moot. She wasn’t going to get the opportunity to make the choice. She could not doubt that he saw her now, for he made a sharp turn in her direction. She raised her hand to greet him, and when he was close, he bent over her and kissed her on each cheek, the standard greeting—she had seen it perhaps twenty times in her brief survey of the crowd—but it thrilled her nonetheless. “How did you find the Caravaggios?” he asked.

  “I didn’t. There was a wedding.”

  He opened his palm, lifting his chin slightly to punctuate the gesture. “You are not having much luck.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “The truth is, I have mixed feelings about Caravaggio.” As the check was already paid and Massimo declined to sit, she got up, brandishing her stick. He made no comment but took her arm and led her off in the direction of Via del Babuino. They were immediately swallowed up in a stream of pedestrian traffic. “How is this possible?” he said.

  “How is what possible?”

  “The mixed feelings.”

  She laughed. “I’ve only seen the ones in the Uffizi,” she explained. “Those awful simpering boys, that boring fruit.”

  “I didn’t know you were a critic of art.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “But I know a little. Like everyone, I’m full of opinions.”

  “And what is it that you like?”

  “Bernini,” she said. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to the Galleria Borghese to see the Apollo and Daphne. I’ve wanted to see it forever, and the last time I was in Rome—”

  “The gallery was closed,” he finished.

  “That’s right.”

  They had arrived at the short alley that crosses from the bustling throng of Via del Babuino to the wide, quiet, sunny expanse of Via Margutta, a short street lined with art galleries and antique stores as well as gorgeous vine-clad villas belonging to important artists and film directors. Liberated from the oppressive choice between pushing or being pushed, Lucy came to a full stop, taking in the peaceful scene, so unexpected and serene and yet so close to the pulsing, blaring, exhaust-laden atmosphere of the piazza. “This is lovely,” she said. She leaned on the stick and took a deep breath. Massimo stopped, too. “What is the address of your friend?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Antonio just said I would find her here.”

  “Does she live here, or does she work somewhere?”

  “I have no idea,” Lucy said. “She’s an artist, so perhaps she works in one of the galleries.”

  “Well,” he said. “We will walk along. It is not a long street.”

  They set out, stopping at the first gallery window and peering in hopefully. The walls were covered with the worst sort of tourist art, thick oil paintings of the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, and the Castel Sant’ Angelo, local gardens and villas, a few country scenes. Incongruously scattered among these were various ugly “surreal” fantasies, obviously the work of one painter, for they all featured women’s heads and torsos coming out of clouds, walls, or furniture, all with melon-sized breasts and bared carnivorous teeth. “These are awful,” Lucy said.

  “They are not very nice,” Massimo agreed. They moved on, past an antique store full of heavy and gilded bric-a-brac, to the next gallery window. This one was tamer; the artists were better trained and more inclined to please. Again the subject matter was largely Rome, but the medium was watercolor, gouache, or pen and ink. It was all very orderly and attractive, thoroughly dull. Massimo pointed to a small watercolor of the Bay of Naples; Vesuvius puffed a thin wash smoke into the background. “That is not bad,” he suggested.

  Lucy nodded, looking past the display to a desk where two young women sat chattering excitedly to each other. “Italians always talk at the same time,” she said.

  “So you are a critic of Italians, as well,” Massimo said.

  “No,” she apologized. “Of course not. I haven’t been here long enough to know anything about Italians.”

  They came to the next window. Here everything was non-representational, nonlinear, abstract at best. There were bad imitations of Jackson Pollock, smooth airbrushed acrylics with two colors in geometric opposition, and a few expressionist eruptions in swirling thick reds and yellows. “Now this is truly dreadful,” Massimo declared. “I know this is not art.”

  Lucy stared numbly into the confusion before her. She knew it, too, though she couldn’t say exactly how she knew. Presumably, people who did not know, or did not care, bought this stuff, all of it, and hung it up on walls somewhere because this street was famous for its galleries, for the quality of its offerings. On weekends in New York, she sometimes roamed the galleries in Chelsea and Soho, where one certainly could find much that was appalling and which, presumably, was bought. Was it better or worse than these? she wondered. It seemed to her that what she saw at home was more decadent, more aggressive, more desperate than anything in these windows. There was a touching naïveté here, a shameless paucity of imagination, and a brazen willingness to acknowledge sources, to broadcast the utter deficit of an original sensibility. Didn’t the Romans notice the difference between what was in their churches, on their buildings, in their streets, and what was in these galleries?

  They moved on, past another antique store and a shop that sold nothing but lamps, to a small gallery with a display window large enough to accommodate only one painting. This was an arresting work, an interior. It was an empty room; the walls and floor were various shades of gray. In the foreground, a man stood, his back to the viewer, looking across the room to a doorway that opened into a darker space. Another man was halfway through this doorway, nearly swallowed up by the darkness he was entering. The men were both dressed in nondescript suits. It was a moody, largely colorless, strangely disturbing scene; something about it gave Lucy a shiver of anticipation. “This is not bad,” Massimo said.

  The picture was mounted on a slim metal easel. Behind it they could see the walls of the gallery, where, carefully spaced, more paintings were displayed. Lucy stepped back to take in the doorway, which was to the side, under an overhang created by the roof adjoining the neighboring shop. There was no sign, only a brass plate with a bell. Engraved on the plate was BULTMAN. “This is it,” she said. Before Massimo had time to respond, she had pressed the buzzer. After a moment, they heard the automatic click as the lock released. Lucy looked up at Massimo, who had joined her under the eaves. “Go ahead,” he said. “The door is open.” She pushed it and they stepped inside.

  From somewhere in the back, a woman’s voice called out in rapid Italian, so
mething Lucy didn’t understand. “She says she will be with us soon,” Massimo translated. “We are to make ourselves at home.”

  It was a long, narrow room, recently Sheetrocked and whitewashed, suggesting a large space divided. Most of the paintings on the walls recapitulated the mysterious gray room of the painting in the window. Beyond these were a few charcoal studies of a nude woman, seated at a table, standing in a doorway, sitting on a floor next to a bed. On the back wall, which was interrupted by an arch, were two landscapes in warm ochers and dark greens of hills that looked a lot like the ones around the farmhouse. Lucy thought these were oils until she got close to them; then she decided they must be pastels, for the surface was grainy. In the lower-right corner she noted the neat signature—Bultman. “These are hers,” she said to Massimo, who was still inspecting the shadowy nudes. They both looked up to the sound of footsteps descending a staircase somewhere beyond the arch. Then, like the figure of a stained-glass saint illuminated by a sudden shaft of light, Catherine Bultman stood smiling in the frame.

  What was it like, Lucy wondered, to know that whenever you entered a room the atmosphere would be decisively altered? Even though she had seen Catherine before and knew what to expect, she still experienced a hair-raising moment of surprise, as if some beautiful animal, a thoroughbred horse, or a lion, something sudden, dangerous, and bursting with health and life, had unexpectedly appeared. Catherine was all light—golden hair, hazel eyes, pale, creamy skin. Her features were well defined, perfect, but not insipid. She was tall without being angular, thin but not bony. She wore jeans, a gray flannel blouse, and expensive, certainly Italian, gray suede pumps. She spoke to Massimo, who stood in her line of vision. “Buona sera,” she said. Then, sensing someone else near her, she turned to Lucy.

  Lucy watched her closely to see if there was a gleam of recognition. They had met briefly on a few occasions, and though Catherine had always been polite, Lucy wondered if she might not remember her at all. She observed a slight drawing together of the eyebrows indicative of a mental inventory. Catherine’s wide eyes pored over her, taking note of everything, her hair, her attire, the bandaged ankle, and, with a blink of surprise, the walking stick, but this inspection, though thorough, was so rapacious and quick, it was only a moment before she said, “It’s Lucy, isn’t it?”

  “Hello, Catherine,” Lucy said.

  “But what are you doing here? Are you with DV?” She glanced out into the gallery, through the window to the street. “Is he here?”

  Surely, Lucy thought, Antonio had told her. This was an act, and quite a convincing one, she had to admit. Massimo was gazing at Catherine with an expression of undisguised admiration, but he tore his eyes away long enough to send Lucy a cautionary frown—Don’t be harsh with this angel, he seemed to say—which irked Lucy. In fact, the entire scene was suddenly intolerable. What was this game they were all playing? Was there some secret, something to hide, or was it just routine obfuscation? “DV is dead,” she said flatly.

  Catherine was startled, but not too much, which made it more likely that her reaction was genuine. “I didn’t know,” she said. “Was he in an accident?”

  Massimo stepped forward. “Signora,” he said. “Yes, an accident.” He gave Lucy such a glare, she felt he had struck her. “I don’t know what Lucy is thinking of, to tell you this unhappy news in such a way, such a blunt way.”

  Catherine answered him in Italian, something to the effect that she was not offended, Lucy gathered, for he made a small further protest. Then they turned to her, to give her the opportunity to explain her bad manners. Great, Lucy thought, now I’m the outsider. “Catherine,” she said, “this is my friend Massimo Compitelli.”

  Catherine recovered quickly and for them all. She always would, Lucy realized, she had that gift. She smiled upon Lucy, an open, generous smile. Wasn’t she an amusing little thing, the smile allowed, so frank, it was refreshing. Then she held out her hand to have a proper American handshake with Massimo. “Caterina Bultman,” she said. “Piacere.”

  “I’m sorry I was so blunt,” Lucy said gloomily. “I thought you would have heard.” This remark did not in any way explain her bluntness, but no one appeared to notice.

  “I haven’t heard anything from DV for months,” Catherine said. “I thought he went back to the States.”

  “No,” Lucy said. “He never left the farmhouse. And he never told anyone you weren’t still there with him.”

  Catherine’s expression clouded. Maybe she was telling the truth, Lucy thought. “How did you find me?” she asked.

  Lucy gestured to the walking stick. “Antonio,” she replied.

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “I recognized it.” She glanced at Massimo, who had taken a few steps away, as if to absent himself from the conversation. “We should talk,” she said to Lucy. “Do you have some time? Could I offer you”—in a gesture, she included Massimo in the invitation—“some coffee or maybe some wine?”

  “I have time,” Lucy said, looking to Massimo.

  “You must stay, of course,” he said; then, making something very near a bow to Catherine, he added, “Unfortunately, I cannot accept this kind invitation.”

  Lucy studied him with interest. Why did he look so uncomfortable and sound so stiff? Was it the thought of being with two women who were talking about another man? Was it because that man had been Catherine’s lover, or because he was dead? “I’ll stay a little while,” she said, following Massimo, for he was already making for the door. Catherine joined them. “Perhaps another time,” she said to Massimo.

  He took her hand. “With much pleasure,” he said. Then he bent over Lucy, kissing each cheek, but politely, as if they had never gotten past such proper, public embraces. “You will find your way back to the hotel?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I’ll call you there this evening.” And with a nod to Catherine, he set off down the empty street.

  “An attractive man,” Catherine observed when he was out of earshot. “But then so many of them are.”

  “That’s true,” Lucy agreed. “The waiter who brought me coffee just now looked like Michelangelo’s David.”

  Catherine contemplated Lucy momentarily, as if she found her an interesting specimen. “I hope you’re not in love with him,” she said.

  Lucy smiled, looking past her down the street, but Massimo had disappeared. “No,” she said. “I’m not in love.”

  “Good,” Catherine declared. “That could be disastrous.” Then she turned back to the gallery and Lucy followed, pulling the door shut behind her. “Let’s go upstairs,” Catherine said. “And have a talk.”

  Chapter 16

  BY THE TIME Lucy held out her glass to receive a refill of the exceptional red wine Catherine was serving, she was entirely off her guard. The pleasure of conversation was as intoxicating as the wine, for it had been some time since she had spoken to another American and, more important, another woman. As she helped herself to an olive from the bowl on the table between them, her eyes wandered over the furnishings of Catherine’s crowded atelier. There was a lot to look at. There was the big easel facing the window, flanked by two sturdy tables covered with all the paraphernalia of the artist—brushes, piles of paint tubes, stacks of tin pans for mixing colors, liter cans of thinner, smaller cans of spray fixatives, boxes of pastels and charcoal, all manner of knives, clamps, and tools for stretching canvas. Next to these was a folding screen painted over with a scene of two scantily clad figures, Adam and Eve perhaps, walking hand in hand through a dense thicket of leaves, too dark and forbiding to be paradise. The screen partially concealed the kitchen corner, deemed unfit for viewing. Lucy could make out a rusty two-burner stove and a half-size refrigerator. Beyond that, along the far wall, were paintings carefully stacked, all facing in, all sizes, five or six deep. An archway near the stairs opened into a small dining alcove with a round wooden table surrounded by old caned chairs. The back wall was a mural, cleverly painted to look like
a window with a view of low hills dotted with cypress trees. The sitting area, where she and Catherine lounged in comfortable velvet armchairs, was set off from the rest of the room by its carpet, a venerable Oriental of deep winy hues. Lucy deposited the olive pit into the brass dish her hostess had provided for that purpose. She had told Catherine everything about DV’s funeral, her own illness, and the affair with Massimo. She had made light of her fantasy that the Cinis had murdered DV and possibly Catherine herself, and that she was to be their next victim.

  “It’s not so far-fetched,” Catherine said. “They are a sinister family.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “There’s the ghost,” she suggested.

  “The dead partisan. But that wasn’t sinister. He was killed by fascists during the war.”

  Catherine shrugged. “If every Italian who says he was a partisan really was one, Mussolini would have been the only fascist in Italy.” She sipped her wine, then fished an olive out of the bowl. “But that’s what DV thought.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “That’s the story the family puts out.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “That there’s a ghost? No. I’m not superstitious.” She chewed the olive thoughtfully. “Another story I heard is that the ghost was killed by his own brother.”

  “The old man!” Lucy exclaimed. “He certainly looks like he would be up to it.”

  “It was a quarrel over a woman. He found out his younger brother was sleeping with his fiancée.”

  “Wow,” Lucy said. “How did you hear this?”

  “Antonio told me,” she said. “Just before I left.”

  “I see,” Lucy said, though she didn’t. Now was the time to bring up the letter, but she was disarmed by Catherine’s frankness. Her lighthearted, confidential manner made Lucy feel as if she was a part of some warm, amusing, and dangerous female conspiracy. She didn’t want to accuse Catherine of anything. “Why did you leave?” she asked, her eyes carefully averted.